Grief
by It'sTimeToDance
Summary: They say there are five stages of grief; Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Dick Grayson finds this out the hard way. More like a mini-fic.
1. Denial

_Stage One: Denial_

I'm pissed.

There are alot of things I should be thinking. I should be upset. I should be crying and kicking and screaming and throwing things at the walls. I should be feeling something. I do, sort of. I'm just pissed.

They're not dead. Everyone keeps telling me they are, though. I'm getting really sick of it.

They just fell. Alot of people fall. They're fine.

They tell me it's perfectly natural to be upset, and I tell them that I'm not upset. I ask them why in God's name I should be upset, and then they look at me funny. Everyone's insane.

I eventually got placed with the man who owns the mansion across the road from the fair grounds. I ask why I can't stay with Pop Haley and the rest of the circus. They give me one of those idiot answers, like the real answer will send me into a hypoalergetic fit in a corner or something. It really is pissing me off.

I was picked up at the court house. A long black limo pulled up with perfect persision, an old, stiff looking man in an equally stiff suit stepped out, told me his name was Alfred, took my suitcase, and held the door open expectedly. I had nothing to do but get in. I figured it wouldn't be for long.

**A/N This isn't gonna be a big thing. Just an experiment of sorts.**


	2. Anger

_Stage Two: Anger_

Now I'm beyond pissed.

Music is blasting in this room that's not mine, making the bed that's also not mine vibrate underneath me. The stereo (not mine) is good. Really good. I like it.

Stupid goddamnsonofabitch.

It's his fault, the ass-fucking-hole. He couldn't let sleeping dogs lie. Why'd he do it? For fucking money? Reputation? What?

The policeman, Commisioner Gorden, was talking to Wayne downstairs, and I'd gotten done trying to listen. All I'd gotten was '...mob boss..." and "...Tony Zucco...".

Now I'm _pissed._

There dead. Deaddeaddeaddeaddead. Now I'm stuck here, in this stupid house with this billionaire trying to earn his browny points and a butler who did nothing but clean and cook and clean and take and shit then clean some more.

The music gets so much louder, even though I'm not even touching it, nor am I listening any more thouroughly. It's just louder, and I suddenly realize how bad it actually is. Senseless, pointless guitar smashing and nonsensical, cracking screams. Then again, it was pretty accurate, considering my mood.

Son of a bitch.

I realized I had a baseball clenched between my fist, found it in the backyard. Alfred, the butler, said it probably rolled in from another yard. I found that strange, seeing as there weren't any houses for miles, let alone rolling distance. I always hated baseball. Everytime I saw some kids playing it in whatever city we were in, I'd wonder why the fuck they'd want to throw balls at each other with only a crap leather glove to break a hit. It seemed mindless and barbaric to me. I don't know, though. I feel like throwing something right now.

I slam the ball into the wall in front of me, a good seven feet away, and it makes a _thump _and a crack, and little splinters of wood poke out from the smooth surface of the foundation. I feel satisfied.

Son of a bitch.

I miss my mom. And I'm _pissed_.

**A/N Again, not being completely serious with this. More like amusement. No point at all.**


	3. Bargaining

**Author's Note: **I'd be lying it I said this was more then just something to do. I'm nevver commited to anything on this goddamn site, but that applies ten-fold to this piece of crap. This is just something to _unleash my inner angst_. Plus I like cursing. Alot. And I figure that cursing too much in stories would get pretty annoying after a while. I also figure that an eight/nine/ten year old in mourning would be cursing alot in his inner-angsty dialogue. Hence, we begin the grieving process. I just thought I should explain myself. Starting a new one-shot that'll probably take a while called **Bring Your Sidekick to Work Day**. If you can't figure that out, then you really shouldn't have access to the internet.

**Disclaimer: **DC owns all. It has been abusing it's Death Stick priveleges, but still. I own nothing.

* * *

_Stage Three: Bargaining_

I'll give it to Bruce Wayne, he knows how to throw a party.

Women in dresses more expenses then they're worth glide across the clean marble dance floor, their fifth glass of whatever twirling in thier long, sharp fingers like carousels, amber liquid spilling from over the edges. I wonder why they come. They obviously don't know anyone, and all they do is drink until they can't stand strait. Maybe that's the point. Maybe they just throw the parties to get the girls drunk. By the way the old man with the bald spot and the Geraldo mustache is eyeing one blonde in particular, it seems more then likely.

I stand in the corner with my hands in my pockets, watching the girls twirl around like lopsided tops, and my imagination works against me.

Maybe they...landed somehwere else...

Another girl laughs loudly, like a crow, and I'd wish she'd shut up. I wish they'd all shut the fuck up. I'd wish people I don't even know would stop coming up to me, telling me how fucking sorry they are when I know they're not. No one's sorry. Only I'm sorry, and no one cares about that, either.

Maybe...they're fine.

They fell on a mattress and bounced into the audience and hit their heads and lost their memory. Now they're wondering Gotham with no idea who they are and it's up to me to heroically save them from the clutches of evil...yeah.

I look at these shoes, too small and not mine, digging the heels into the marbel floor. Maybe, if I press hard enough, it would crack and the whole floor would open up and swallow me whole.

I contemplated how much I hated my life for a while, occasionally drifting off to imagine being back at the circus. But it was mostly hating my life.

Maybe, if I had gone up first...

If I'd screamed sooner....

Maybe if I sell my soul or something?

Give me a price, I'll pay it. Anything to get me out of this goddamn party.

Another girl sqeals at a bad joke, gulping down the remainder of her drink and motioning for a waiter to bring her another.

I miss my mom. She never drank.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm not sure what they mean by bargaining.


	4. Depression

_Stage Four: Depression_

My life sucks. It sucks it sucks it sucks it fucking sucks. I should jump off the roof. Knowing my luck, I'd probably land on a trampoline of something.

The sun is shining, though, rays of yellow and orange casting light on the dreary manor. I look at the outline of my shadow, cocking my head from side to side, leaning in and out. I hate the sun.

I used to like the sun. Being cooped up in a circus tent all day and all night made me appreciate the slightest bit of sunshine I could get. I snuck out, early in the morning. Before we woke up for training, just as the sun came up. I'd just sit there and watch it turn all it's different colors. Everything would slowly get brighter and brighter, the trees, the ground, the trailers. The animals would stir as the sky became orange, growling and hissing, waking far sooner then their owners. The lions would automatically get to their feet, rhythmically prowling their crate, searching for some kind of prey, I guess. I liked to pretend that the lions were actually solar powered robots, and when the sun touched their fur or skin or whatever, the batteries would reboot. I don't know. I was a pretty stupid kid.

Now, there aren't any animals. Now, the sun has lost it's spark, and I hate it.

I should jump off the roof.

What's the point of doing all this shit? Everyone's going to end up like they did, being scraped off the floor like burnt pancakes.

Bruce tried to _talk _to me last night. He obviously had never interacted with anyone under thirty-five before, by my observations. Usually strait forward and commanding, he starts fucking stuttering and telling me he 'get's what I'm going through' and all that crap. I said all that was expected, 'uh-huh' and 'sure, yeah', until he left, I'm sure feeling very pleased with himself.

I dug my forehead into my arms, a small, meaningless attempt at hiding from the goddamn sun. God, I hate the sun.

Tears well at my eyes, and try to blink them away. They're persistent, though, and they trail down my cheeks like acid, bitter on my lips. I wipe them away impatiently, and they stop, back to their little hole in wherever they came from like good little tears, and I expect not to see them again.

I see Alfred at the corner of my eye, standing at the door like a statue. He doesn't move, and he doesn't say anything. He just watches, me or the sunrise, I don't know.

I try to torture myself, forcing my pupils into it until it burns. Maybe I'll go blind, and never have to look at it again. If I should be so lucky.

I look away, silently admitting defeat to the thing.

I should jump off the roof. I'll go the same way they did, and this whole thing will be over. I'll be out of this goddamn house, I'll be out of this goddamn city, and I'll be happy for the first time in forever.

I can't, though, because I've been trained since I was three to always catch yourself. If I jumped off a roof, I would automatically grab for the nearest branch. Plus I'm a wuss. It'd never work.

But still, I can hope.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Let me make this clear: this has no point. At all. It's not supposed to be good or even remotely okay-ish. If it is, it is purely my mistake.


	5. Acceptance

_Stage Five: Acceptance_

Rain pattered against the window sill like thousands of tiny pebbles, creating an unignorable tapping that made me cover my head with the immaculate pillow.

Three weeks. Three goddamn weeks and, somehow, I'm still alive.

It's a fucking miracle.

Remember how I hate the sun? Well, the same goes for rain. I hate rain. I despise rain. It doesn't shut up.

I find myself liking this house, though. When it rained, water would always drip from the cracks in the ceiling, and I'd wake up soaking wet, having to dump all my clothes and buy new ones from whatever second rate outlet I could find. It was one of the few downsides of living in a circus. The only thing classifying you as 'inside' are four walls of cheap tin connected to a tow truck.

This, with the thick, muffled walls and the built in ventalation, I could get used to. Plus the pool. The pool was just awesome.

I looked at the torn, faded poster that I taped to the headboard of the bed, the only personel touch to the entire room. It was only outlines, one big, one small, one smaller, with cheep scan-on stars bordering the sides, the letters large and flashing. We never had much time for pictures, taking them or anything. Only when we needed new flyers, because we ran out of the old ones. Even then, they weren't very good, and I never really saw them. It didn't bother me. I never thought I would ever need pictures, anyway.

There's a knock on the door, and I tell them to come in, whoever it is, just because this isn't my house and I have no right to say no.

It's Bruce, in his stiff buisness suit, just like before. He looks hesitant, awkward. I sit up and stare at him, maybe trying to make him feel more awkward, just for kicks.

He says hi, I say hi back. He ask me how I'm doing, I say fine. He tells me I can start school whenever, I shrug. It's a very one demensional conversation for a while. When I'm sure he's out of questions, I expect him to leave. He doesn't. He hasn't run out of questions, apparently.

"Are you okay?"

I don't expect it. It's one of the most generic, simple questions in the world. It's either 'yes' or 'no'. But somehow, I'm flustered.

I think about it.

I'm not dead, I remind myself, I'm still sane. I'm not dead yet.

They're dead, though. I can't get myself to be upset anymore.

"Yeah," I say, "I'm fine."

Very clearly, he has no experience with kids. He seems like he knows alot, though, which is some consolation.

"You...uh...wanna talk?"

I look at the hole in the wall where the baseball went in, "About what?" I ask, "'s not like I can do anything about it."

He pauses, "Right."

We don't say anything, and then he decides he's going to leave. He turns back, only to tell me Alfred will have dinner ready soon, and he closes the door behind him.

Well, I feel accomplished.

At least I don't want to jump off the roof anymore.

**Author's Note: **JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!?!!??? You all wanted a corny ending and...I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I hate corny. I loathe corny. Don't expect corny. Thats the corniest I can squeeze out.


End file.
